


Like a Damn Fool

by vetiverite



Series: Like a Damn Fool [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst with a Happy Ending, Codependency, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Love at First Sight, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Promiscuity, Recovery, Traveling Circus, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Circus performer, jack-of-all-trades, drunkard, slut, and incorrigible dreamer, Phileas "Fee" Lonesome holds his secrets close to his chest.  His fellow showfolk despair of him ever getting his shit together... but when a fiery, dark-eyed young loner lands in the midst of the midway, it's time for Fee to stop clowning around.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Like a Damn Fool [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070573
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	Like a Damn Fool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981065) by [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/pseuds/Linane). 



> _Inspired by Linane's astounding artwork[ **Such Kind Eyes, My Brother**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981065/chapters/39915411).  
>   
> Some character notes, in case their identities aren't obvious: Arkenstein (Big Man) is Thorin; Greenleaf (Mile-High) is Thranduil; Bill (the Missus) is Bilbo; Barry and Dwayne are Balin and Dwalin; Tori is Tauriel; Bombs Away is Bombur; Norris is Nori; Galadriel and Ori are exactly what it says on the label; Biff is Bifur; the Law Firm of Owen, Glann & Beaufort is Oin, Gloin & Bofur; Dr. Doerr is Dori; Bjørn-Arne (the Boss; Bear) is Beorn; Gander "Goosey" Alford is Gandalf; Smaug is Himself; and Greenleaf's completely insufferable (and blessedly unseen) artist-wannabe offspring is, of course, Legolas.  
>   
> Song lyrics of "Friend of the Devil" by Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead.  
>   
> Kee's injury is similar to one suffered by my own father during his late teens, when he and his friends got it into their heads to hire themselves out as day workers to a passing circus. He got a mild scar and a great story out of the experience.  
>   
> Bits of Fee's personality are inspired by John, the character Dean O'Gorman played in _Pork Pie _. Other aspects are borrowed from a Zen hobo whom I once had the privilege to know and will never forget._

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50708360716/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50707626493/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50708360646/in/dateposted-public/) [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50708447997/in/dateposted-public/)

It’s a shit circus—one ring, no elephant, though they _do_ have a live dragon. It’s a shit _circuit_ , too—small towns teeming with slack-jaws too easily parted from their paychecks. In such benighted places, cotton candy tastes like manna from heaven, and sideshow barkers quote Shakespeare to rubes who wouldn’t know poetry if it smacked them on the ass.

 _THREE NIGHTS ONLY!_ says the showcard. _Two nights too many,_ the old-timers mutter. Still, they strap on their game faces and put on a show worth the promised two-and-a-half stars on Yelp.

The owners (actually named Greenleaf and Arkenstein, can you believe it?) have no intention of upping the game. They, like their fathers and grandfathers before them, run a good old-fashioned dog-and-pony show. It’s got the basics: fairly honest games, mostly clean attractions, exactly seven rides, hardly any pickpockets. Nothing to be ashamed of, except for… well, _you_ know. 

_Him_.

Dr. Phileas “Fee” Lonesome, Ph.D., Professor of Bullshit, wakes up grizzle-faced and thick-tongued in the bed of his pickup truck. If not for the fiberglass shell, he’d be covered in dew instead of a drunkard’s flop sweat. His hungover head feels like a cannonball; his mouth tastes like manure. But another day brings another dollar, so he strips naked as a jaybird and clambers out dick-a’swingin’ to upend half a plastic jug of water over his dream-heavy head.

 _He’s at it again,_ Barry the canvasman announces to all and sundry.

 _Jesus, Lonesome,_ Barry’s brother Dwayne bellows. _Cover that thing up before someone loses an eye._

After the bright September sun has dried him, Fee deigns to get dressed. Besides his costume, he owns three pairs of pants and two shirts, none of which have seen the inside of a washing machine since five towns ago. But that’s all right. He’s _supposed_ to look like a busted old train-tramp. It helps him get into character.

Mornings are black coffee and egg-and-ketchup sandwiches handed out by Tori the fire-eater (twenty-six, Oberlin theater major, nineteen tattoos that Fee’s actually seen; he even licked them to see if they were permanent). Like all people who regret having slept with Fee, she hails him with a _fuck-you_ glare which he suffers with resignation. Half the circus salutes him this way. He’s used to it.

Tori thrusts his egg sandwich at him and dismisses him with two syllables: _Shitbird_.

 _Love you too, darlin’,_ he replies. It’s sweet talk like this that keep him clinging like a barnacle to the ass end of this barge.

There’s an awful lot to accomplish between breakfast and showtime— tents to raise, hay bales to haul, game booths and rides to be pieced together. Fee pitches in wherever he’s needed. He drifts from task to task, lending a hand here, shouldering the weight there. For all of Tori’s smack-talk, even she wouldn’t call him _useless_.

Fee can change a tire, charm a snake, flip a pancake, hot-wire a truck. He always seems to carry the right size nut for your bolt, if you give him time to fish it out of a pocket sagging with roach clips and loose change. He can sew anything. _Anything!_ Tent canvas, skirt sequins, sock heels. One rumor claims he used to construct whalebone corsets. Another asserts that he toured with Dita von Teese as a freelance tassel technician. Falsehoods, of course, but glamorous ones, like bright sequins stitched onto drab sackcloth.

Simply put, Fee is the ideal circus trouper. He can do a little of everything, none of it perfectly, but also none of it too darn badly. He makes himself useful, which is more than you can say for most PhDs.

 _What are you actually a doctor of?_ Goosey once asked. Goosey is Gander Alford, the company’s ringmaster for nigh on three decades. Road life exacerbates his arthritis, and he’s often caught doing quaint old-timer stretches in rest-stop parking lots. Such was the case when he posed the above question.

Fee’s eyes began to dart around. He suddenly looked pale and harried, as if he might chuck up his lunch. 

_Cultural anthropology,_ said he.

 _Where’d you do your fieldwork?_ Goosey pressed, expecting tales of the Qom people of Argentina or the heathen reconstructionists of Iceland. Needless to say, the reply surprised him.

 _New Canaan, Connecticut,_ Fee whispered once and never again.

For a swig of Wild Turkey, he’ll show you his Harvard diploma. He keeps it squirreled away in the glovebox along with a box of condoms and a cigarette lighter that resembles a ladies’ pearl-handled pistol. Of the three, he’s gotten the least use out of the diploma. He often says he’ll cut it up for rolling paper if he ever runs short.

 _Guaranteed the most expensive spliff ever smoked,_ he grins.

Fee doesn’t mind if you call him _Doctor_ , but never call him a _clown_. He’ll inform you at great length and volume of his views on the matter. 

_The great misfortune of circuses is that they attract clowns like meat attracts flies,_ he says. _At their very heart, clowns are vicious creatures who nurse an abiding hatred for humanity. I, on the other hand, am a damn fool._

There’s nothing wrong with his terminology. Technically speaking, a fool’s a species of mime, though not of the Marcel Marceau variety. Think Bill Irwin, Harpo Marx, Buster Keaton— half jester, half Zen master, all artist. Sweet yet muddled, he applies whimsy like a poultice to the world’s hurt out of sheer hopeless love. If anyone’s to take it on the chin himself, it’s the damn fool. 

A fucking _clown_ on the other hand…

Like all circuses, Greenleaf & Arkenstein upholds many quaint traditions. Sex with Fee is one of them.

Whoever’s newest to the crew swaggers around at first, thinking they’re immune. The old-timers try to warn them, to no avail. At some point, each and every one of them – tall, short, young, old, male, female, gay, straight – will find themselves beset by a mysterious desire to see what’s in those big, baggy buffoon britches. 

_I can’t explain it,_ says Tori. _That tiny little guy gives off this enormous… I don’t know what. But once it grabs you, you’re powerless; you practically float through the air, across camp and into his bed._

That’s where the magic happens. It’s also where the trouble begins.

Not that Phileas Lonesome is a bastard— far from it, though he’s most indubitably a slut. _Fucks like an angel from heaven,_ they say. _His face, the way he moves, his moans – oh Jesus, the way he lets you see him completely open and trembling! – and all the while he’s playing you like a fucking Stradivarius, and you come so many times you forget what planet you live on…_

Only problem is, he forgets, too.

It’s a solid gold fact that Fee’s body operates independently of his bourbon-soaked brain. When it comes to sex, he’s spectacular; you could make a fortune hawking tickets. Thing is, each ticket’s only good for one ride. And in the morning, when his last-night lover realizes that the ecstasy wasn’t shared, that they alone experienced it and they alone remember it…

Tori calls it _a condition inconducive to lasting romance._

 _College girls,_ thinks Fee.

Noon’s come and gone, and the lunch crowd is starting to line up at the staff mess tent. But Norris the midway manager has planted his fat ass in Fee’s path and refuses to budge.

 _Big Man wants the pleasure of your company,_ he smirks. 

Big Man means Arkenstein. If it’d been Mile-High, that would mean Greenleaf. A funny one, Greenleaf. Heir to an dying circus dynasty back in Blighty; pulled the plug to come here and for what? To take a two-bit carnival and turn it into a _two-and-half_ -bit carnival? You can’t say much for his ambition. Then again, everyone gets paid regular, but that’s due to Big Man’s Missus— another Brit, which says something about Arkenstein’s taste.

The Missus – whose real name is Bill – greets Fee at the trailer door with a kindly, commiserating smile. He and Arkenstein have been together since forever, and he’s got his partner’s moods memorized like a train schedule.

 _A bit dyspeptic today,_ he whispers. _Don’t take it personally—_

_Lonesome! Get in here!_

Arkenstein’s sitting at the tiny kitchenette table, irritably sorting receipts and invoices into orderly piles. His long, silver-streaked hair and Grateful Dead t-shirt clash oddly with his crisp, professorial manner. _Sit,_ he orders Fee, who sinks onto the plastic bench opposite him. He glowers at Fee over the tops of his wire-rims, then lets fly: _Lot of liquor bottles in the trash lately._

_Who you calling trash?_

The joke falls flat. Drumming his pen against the tabletop, Arkenstein maintains eye contact until Fee can’t. 

_We_ both _worry,_ Bill interjects to cut the tension. He’s rummaging in one of the tiny cabinets for a package of water crackers to accompany the brick of cream cheese he just found in the fridge.

 _I know, and I love you for it, truly I do,_ retorts Fee. _Have I been slacking on my chores?_

_Not that I’ve heard._

_Picking fights? Driving crooked?_

_No and no— but you keep yourself apart, and it’s not going unnoticed._ Arkenstein drops his pen, slides down his specs, and massages the bridge of his nose. _I know full well that once I give you your pay, I can’t tell you how to spend it_ , he says. _In theory, I’m not even supposed to ask. But so long as there’s no law against me viewing my employees as family, I’m damn well going to_ care _what you do. And no matter how well you think you’ve got a grip on your liquor, Fee, it’s obvious it’s got a stronger grip on you._ He heaves an old-man sigh. _Lord knows everybody in this circus drinks, kid, but they drink_ together _. It’s when you start drinking_ alone _that you’re in trouble._

Fee falls silent, thinking. At length he peeks up at Arkenstein from under the brim of his bowler hat. _What does Greenleaf say?_

 _Greenleaf’s got his own worries,_ Bill points out. It’s true. Back across the pond, the Brit’s son is burning up his trust fund like a pile of nitrate reel-to-reel. Greenleaf has flown home to consult with the accountants.

 _When’s he coming back?_ Fee inquires.

_Don’t be so eager. I heard from him this morning, and you’ll never guess who he plans to bring with him._

The challenge is purely facetious. There’s only one answer, and it leaves Fee staring in horror at his boss. _You have GOT to be shitting me_ , he groans.

 _I am not. Apparently Junior has taken a few design courses and wants to “improve our aesthetic”._

Withering scorn marks those last three words. Arkenstein comes from Old West medicine-show stock and is perfectly content keeping things rough around the edges. But the Greenleaves are known for providing elegant entertainment— and they’re the ones holding the checkbook.

 _If they Cirque du Soleil us, I swear to god,_ Fee groans.

 _I don’t think they’ll go that far. But if they try, Bill’s promised to help me smother them both with a pillow. Anyway… back to my original point. Just slow down some, would you?_ Arkenstein’s voice has turned warm and avuncular. _Let up on the throttle, okay? Okay?_

Fee’s smile contains not even a trace of sarcasm. _Okay, Pops._

 _Okay, then._ Arkenstein goes back to his invoices, and Bill applies a cream cheese-laden cracker to Fee’s lips like a wafer of the sacred host.

Two p.m. sharp. Gates open, calliope wheezing, barkers barking, show-talkers talking. The air fills with the whip-whap of plastic banners snapping, the aroma of hot sugar and slightly charred soft pretzels. Showtime.

Wearing his finery – enormous baggy pants, a fusty old bowler hat, and a cast-off drum-major jacket with tarnished frogging – Fee drifts and weaves in and out of the crowd until he finds the Right Spot. The Right Spot has got to be a place where normally happy, peaceful people are just about to turn mean. Kids crying, parents sighing, lovers quarreling while they stand on line for carmel corn or a turn at Plinko.

He stops, and it begins.

A shimmy, a shake. A look around to see if anyone notices. A little soft-shoe, and he takes off his hat, revealing a mop of bright golden curls with a thin braided tail in back. He rolls that hat all over himself, up and down arms and legs, to and fro over his shoulders, down his back to be bumped off of his ass. He whirls fast to catch it, pretends to fumble it, and soon he’s got a circle of curious faces surrounding him. 

A smile kindles on one, leaps to another, and another, and another. Fee’s got them now.

He waggles his ass so that his pant legs shake, and the kids go wild for it. He pops ’n’ locks a bit for the benefit of the young lovers, then does the aw-shucks shuffle for the old folks. All the while he’s searching the crowd for that ONE open face. It invariably belongs to someone with a wish—not to join the circus, per se, but to take three minutes off from toeing the line. He’ll tug at their sleeve, waltz them into the center of the circle, enlist their aid in a few sleight-of-hand tricks. They always accept, blushing with pride to be thus singled out.

It makes them feel good, which makes him feel good.

But it’s thirsty work, this tomfoolery. Once everyone’s herded into the big tent for the show, a sadness will close in around Fee. He’ll have given all of himself; there won’t be any more. He’ll shuffle back to his truck, dig out a fresh bottle, and pour it into the black hole until the last glimmer of consciousness is extinguished.

Without amnesia, how would he manage to start every new day?

After one complete circuit of the grounds, it’s time for a break. Fee bums a cigarette off Dwayne and tucks it in his pocket for later, after he’s stopped by the dragon yard.

 _What’d I tell you about smoking?_ Smaug rumbles the second Fee comes into view. _Those things’ll kill you._

The old bird can smell what he can’t see, but Fee isn’t at all fazed. _Can it, you old pterodactyl. You smoke constantly._

 _I’m a_ dragon, _nitwit. My fire comes pre-installed._ At a hundred-sixty-two, the beast is notoriously hard to bullshit. He rears up to sit on his muscular haunches, folding his leathery wings down. A nearby child cries, _OOOOH!_ and Smaug automatically sing-songs, _Well, HI THERE, young sir! Yes, I AM quite a specimen!_ Under his breath to Fee: _Christ, I’m tired. When we get to Falls City, I’m gonna eat for two days and sleep for three._

_I can’t wait that long. I’m heading to the mess tent for a burrito. You want anything?_

_Yeah._ Smaug turns his head to regard Fee with one dinner-plate-sized golden eye. _A cigarette._

Just twenty feet shy of lunch, Fee skids to a halt.

A tall, willowy woman in a gauzy silk peasant frock stands chatting with Bombs Away, the troupe’s chief cook. Her back’s to Fee, but he still recognizes her from that rippling river of ash-blonde hair and the tattoo of a _koi_ snaking around her left calf. 

_Hey, pretty mama,_ he calls out.

She slowly angles around, looks him up and down, and stabs him with an icicle of a smile. _Hey, asshole._

Bombs Away lets out a snort of glee. _Everyone_ north of Galveston knows the score with these two. The epic eye-fucks shading into marathon screaming matches. The wails of sexual ecstasy muted by the silence of end-stage rage. If Galadriel hadn’t jumped ship, she’d surely have been charged with murder.

 _Miss me?_ Fee chirps.

 _Hardly._ She narrows her silvery eyes to slits, then gives up. _Maybe a little. They say even arsenic is addictive._

 _You’re the poisons expert._ He offers a sincerely fraternal embrace, which she accepts. Bombs Away goes back to slapping hot refried beans on a row of soft tortillas. It’s best to let these two duke it out on their own.

So, says Fee. _Working or looking?_

_A little of both. I’m tired of being chained to my stump._

A few years back, Galadriel set herself up with a quaint little shopfront in Nashville, reading tarot and palms and hosting ladies’ cream teas by reservation only. Every so often, though, the old road-itch rises up—a symptom whose underlying cause can never be cured, only held at bay with stale motel doughnuts and coffee.

 _Greenleaf said he’d hold me a booth for two nights, then it’s on to Hot Springs. And you?_ she asks Fee. _How’re your suspenders holding up?_

 _Barely, from the weight of all the shemolians G &A lays on us weekly. _Flapping his pants, Fee sidewinks at Bombs Away. _Did you hear we’re a union shop now?_

_I might have read something in_ Vogue _. Well._ Galadriel shifts her stance, hooking her purse strap up higher on her shoulder. _I suppose I’ll be seeing you around. If you come across any lonelyhearts, send them my way, will you?_ Her eyes rake over him; her mouth-corners quirk upward, though not in mirth. _Or visit me yourself, if you like. Pardon my saying, but it looks like your fortune’s taken a few left turns._

 _Light always changes to red on me halfway through,_ Fee agrees, inching away. _You take care, darlin._

He gets twenty feet before he realizes his hands are empty, and thus, so will be his stomach until the next break. 

So long, burrito.

For all Fee’s careful aplomb, his conversations with Big Man and Galadriel have put a stick in his spokes. He lopes down the length of Shakedown Street, muttering loud enough to drown out the symphony of his empty stomach. So absorbed in inner argument is he that he forgets where he’s going—and then, at the corner of Main and Midway, it happens.

He runs right smack into Mount Doom.

 _Watch where you’re fucking going,_ comes a peevish growl, and Fee looks up, and he turns so moony-Juney that all comebacks fail him. 

Now, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Dr. Phileas “Fee” Lonesome, Ph.D. is, to put it kindly _, fun-sized._ This is not the same thing as being _a snack,_ though in Fee’s case, he’s both. But the fact remains that he’s spent most of his adult life tilting his head back to meet other men’s eyes. For the first time he can recall, it’s a pleasurable sensation. He doesn’t say a word. He just backs _waaaayyyy_ the fuck up— not in defensive dread, but because you can see a big beautiful thing clearer from a distance. 

Dwayne would call this one _a tall glass of somethin’-somethin’._ Six-footer, whipsnake-lean except for shoulders clearly created for weary heads to rest on. Big ole biceps, but graceful hands. Hips? Just _looking_ at them, you can feel how they’d thrust. And that _face_ , lord— heart-shaped, pouty-lipped, pugnacious as hell. Dark eyes, radiating liquid fire.

Yep. Mount Doom. And though it might take some climbing to reach the source of all that lava, Fee thinks he’d _definitely_ chuck a ring at it.

 _You high or something?_ the volcano asks.

 _No,_ Fee replies. _Just hungry._ (And horny. And soon to be rip-roaring drunk. Again.)

Ferocious brows draw together in a wary frown. _You work here?_

A rhetorical question, of course; what civilian would ever dress like this? But Fee rolls with it _. I hope so; they soitenly pay me enough!_ he announces in his best vaudeville voice, complete with jazz hands and mock rimshot: _Ba-dum tchk!_

His new friend is unimpressed. _Happen to know if they’re hiring?_

Fee gestures vaguely toward the admissions booth. _You’d have to talk to the ticket-taker—skinny fella named Ori. He’ll pass you on to the Boss._

_I tried. He was busy. Everyone is, except you._

_Well, of all the fucking chutzpah_ — _!_ Fee thinks. But he can’t seem to muster enough ire to tell the kid off. I mean _look_ at him. A boy-king in commoner’s disguise, standing there as if he owned the midway and every dusty, faded prize in it…

 _What kind of work are you looking for?_ he asks, desperately trying to focus on anything other than those mile-wide shoulders.

_Don’t know. I just want something to do. I’ve run out of ideas._

The voice is deep-timbred, ever so slightly raspy. It puts Fee directly in mind of molten dark toffee; he wants it to drip all over him, and damn the second-degree burns. He wants it to list all of the things its owner has tried to do, or has half-assed his way through, or never wants to do again so long as he lives. He wants it to recite the fifty states in alphabetical order, the periodic table of elements in order of atomic mass, a supermarket shopping list, the goddamn phone book. He wants to hear it say his name. Shit—moan it, wail it, pant it, _scream_ it.

But while this dream lasts, he’ll settle for some walk-and-talk. Preferably by the scenic route. 

_I’ll bring you to the Boss myself,_ he tells Mount Doom. _It’s no trouble. In fact, it’d be my pleasure._

Foot traffic in a fairground has little to do with showtimes. It has even less to do with the brand of entertainment on tap. So says Fee—and then he starts flinging around phrases like _collective consciousness_ and _emotional intensity_ _level_ until Dwayne tells him to shut his piehole.

Right now, he and his companion are fording the crowd like a pair of anglers crossing a brook. In some places, it’s easy-peasy; in others, you’d think the ground under their soles was riverbottom mud a foot deep. But the more effort it takes to get from point A to point B, the better the night’s profits will be.

 _In the right towns, you can hardly move a yard in under a minute,_ Fee explains to Kee. That’s as much name as the kid gives at first, but Fee’s an expert interrogator.

 _Kee Lee?_ he asks, astounded.

 _Céilí._ his companion sternly corrects him. 

_For real, frickin’_ Céilí? _How did_ that _happen?_

 _I was born at one_.

_In Ireland?_

_No. Nebraska._

Fee imagines a small-town Midwestern VFW hall. Sterno-heated corned beef and cabbage; wrinkled satin A.O.H. banner sticky-tacked to the wall. Spurred on by fiddle and pipe, couples dance jigs and reels under the epileptic flicker of fluorescent lights. A very pregnant woman excuses herself, disappearing through the door that leads to an echoing hallway. Ten minutes later she returns, brand-new squalling babe in arms, and effortlessly picks up the next verse of “Danny Boy”…

 _Your folks musicians?_ he asks. _Dancers?_

Sullen, as if reluctant to speak of it: _She is._

_What about you?_

The kid shrugs.

Fee’s about to tease some more info out of this beautiful stranger when he stops short and sniffs the air, peers at the eddies of people swirling around them. They’ve come to the Right Place. 

_Give me a minute, would you?_ he whispers to Kee. _I’m on the clock._

Crowds are a law unto themselves. What attracts them is very much a matter of mystery. Give them a top-shelf spectacle, and they’ll gather around a frog in a puddle. Fee’s job, as he sees it, is to be that frog—and to work it so that his puddle dries up just in time for the big show.

He’s got a good circle going in less time than it takes to pop popcorn. The mild dizziness brought on by hunger lends his shimmy-shake a loose and tipsy quality that seems to amuse the audience. The only person who doesn’t seem to find it hilarious is Kee, in whose ferocious gaze Fee finds himself pinned like a wriggling bug. 

Is the kid trying to unnerve him? That’s all right. Smack-dab in the middle of the cakewalk – thumbs tucked under his arms so that his elbows stick out like rooster wings – he’ll make his usual bid to pry a victim loose from the crowd, and he knows exactly who he’ll tap.

But Kee beats him to it.

Gun-jumpers have predictable habits. Some push through the crowd, emboldened by one too many parking-lot beers. Some get jet-propelled into the circle by their soon-to-be-ex-friends. Others stand poised as they wait for a choice opening like a kid playing Double Dutch. Kee’s one of the latter. In one wild leap, he sheds the sullen, slouching townie routine and becomes a whole different creature.

Up to now, Fee’s antics have unspooled chaotically, with no rhythm to underpin them. Kee changes that. He squeezes his way to the inner rim of the circle and begins to clap out a beat. And not just _any_ clap, and not just _any_ beat. The way he raises and interlocks his hands; the unusual tempo he chooses— _ONE, one-two, one-two, three, four, ONE, one-two, one-two, three, four …_

Fee nearly trips over his own feet.

The summer after receiving his doctorate, he treated himself to a jaunt through Spain— Malaga, Cordoba, Seville. On random side streets, small but dense rings of people gathered on the pavement. No spotlights, no costumes; no division between performer and audience. The dancers wore street clothes and shabby everyday shoes, if they wore shoes at all. They danced, not with precision but raw intensity; not for money or fame but for love. 

And whoever wasn’t dancing was _clapping_ — in sync, by heart, as one.

So when Kee takes up the stance, a thousand-watt thrill shoots right the fuck up Fee’s spine, leapfrogging over his chakras like ground lightning. And when the crowd spontaneously takes Kee’s beat into their own hands – _ONE, one-two, one-two, three, four_ – thank god for baggy tramp pants and the multitude of sins they hide, because Fee actually gets half-hard. 

To cover his excitement, he immediately schools his feet to follow the track Kee’s laying down for him. How did the street _bailores_ hold their arms? Ah, fuck it— he’d better just raise them over his head. When in truth you don’t know shit about shit, no point in showing off…

He gets halfway around the circle before Kee jumps in. _WOOOO!_ goes the crowd, but they maintain the beat set out for them. 

As he stalks Fee around the circle – chest high, abdomen taut, letting his back foot drag seductively behind with each careful step – Kee keeps his own time with finger snaps, elbows up and out, hands curved under. Then he switches back to hand claps with gently cupped palms to keep the sound close by and quiet. TOO quiet. There’s a strange feeling in the air, like just before lightning strike. 

_Here it comes,_ thinks Fee. He almost calls out _¡Venga!_ but a fool must always maintain silence.

BAM! The chin snaps up, the hands fly skyward. A flurry ( _no, a FURY!_ thinks Fee) of rapid-fire steps is punctuated by a dervish whirl. The style’s raw, unrehearsed, and true; it’s never seen the inside of a café or concert hall. Eyes blaze, lips curl, hands grasp at the invisible to pull it closer to the heart. A leap; another, more reckless whirl, and suddenly it’s over. The kid is back to tracing slow snake-tracks in the dust of the midway, watching his prey through lowered lashes.

Fee won’t take this lying down. Well, he _would_ take it lying down— preferably on his back, if Kee were giving it. But this is war. 

Feigning apoplectic rage, he shucks his bellboy jacket and dashes it down upon the dusty earth. Underneath he’s wearing a threadbare, pinholed _Diamond Dogs_ t-shirt two sizes too small, baring his belly. A nice belly it is, too, despite all the hooch he drinks; circus life keeps a drunkard fit. He lost his belt in Peoria, so his too-big pants sag around his hipbones, held up mainly by what Bill admiringly calls _Fee’s Back Forty_. 

_A damn shame, hiding an ass like that in pants like those,_ Dwayne says.

 _I know you’d prefer me in tights, Hoss,_ Fee replies every time. _It kills me to break your heart._

If there’s one benefit to being a slut, it’s that you get to keep a little bit of every lay. From Indigo, Fee learned to make a mean lanyard bracelet. From Portland Pete, he picked up twenty-three useful Yiddish curses. From Galadriel, he took away a bite mark on his shoulder that still sings her name at the new moon. And from Sweet Shelly in Oakland, he received the ancient art of bellydance—at least such as is practiced at Renaissance Faires from B.C. down to Oakland. 

Now, if you think a bearded blond peanut in hobo britches can’t unleash your juices with a _sloowwww_ roll of his pelvis, then you are not prepared for Dr. Phileas “Fee” Lonesome. As the good doctor begins to undulate, Kee jumps as if someone’s goosed him. He watches with something between lust and outrage as his rival’s hips spell out everything, _everything_ , that could, has, and _will_ happen if you get into those ridiculous pants. 

One lady squeals and covers her grandkid’s eyes. By way of apology, Fee swipes his bowler hat off his golden head and pretends to play it like a tambourine—as if that could possibly swerve this train back onto the rails of family-friendliness.

Now for the pièce de resistance. Fee gropes in his memory for Shelly’s instructions. _Just like molasses in January,_ she’d say. _Arch back, slowly-slowly-slowly, vertebrae by vertebrae, that’s it… and now, just as slow, curl up-up-up-up…_ With a quick prayer (and a covert grunt, because it’s been a while) he casts himself to his knees and goes in for the snake roll.

He blows it.

Of _course_ he blows it. What else is he supposed to do? It is the fool’s sacred duty to fuck up. His place is on his ass in the dust, and wouldn’t you know it, that’s exactly where ends up. Sure, Fee would love to be graceful and dignified and… hell, let’s say it, _sex on wheels._ But that’s not in his job description. 

It’s sort of why he drinks.

Alarmed, Kee starts forward but is warned away with an infinitesimal head-shake. To make the hurt worth it, Fee must rescue himself in the most over-the-top slapstick way possible. After water-beetling around on his back for what feels like an eternity, then crab-walking halfway around the circle with a few hiphop hinge-kicks thrown in for spice, he manages to scrabble up onto his feet and look around for his fallen hat.

He finds it cradled in Kee’s reverent hands.

_Where did you learn to dance fucking_ flamenco _? If you danced anything, I would’ve thought you danced Irish._

They’re on the move again, heading for the backlot. Limping along to keep up with his long-legged companion, Fee feels older than ever and twice as graceless. He’s just made a royal ass of himself in front of someone he’d really, really, _really_ like to fuck, and he funnels his self-disgust into accusatory sourness.

Kee’s voice, by contrast, is velvet to the ear. Their dance and its denouement has softened something in him. _Why would you think that?_

 _I don’t know. You were born at a_ céilí _._

 _Yeah, but I never_ danced _at it._

_Your mother did._

_How do you know?_

_You said she was a dancer._

_Is, not was— at least so far as I know. But I never said she was Irish, or danced that way._

_But then what was she doing at a_ céilí _?_

 _All kinds of people go to them_. _Not just Irish people._

 _But mostly Irish tend to—goddamnit, hold up!_ Fee grabs at the kid’s elbow and hauls him out of the flow of foot traffic, depositing him next to a lighting scaffold. 

_Look, we just met, and aside from your name, which I’m not even sure is real, I don’t know the least thing about you,_ he declares all in a rush. _But THAT back there_ – he waves vaguely toward five minutes ago. _I feel like—like something just got started, and even if it’s doomed to go to hell in a handbasket like everything else in this world, does it have to go so QUICKLY is all I’m saying._

Kee studies him for a moment. A smile lurks around the corners of his mouth, then widens to full-blown.

 _She IS Irish, my mother,_ he whispers. _By marriage._

 _You little shit._ Fee’s laughing while he says it, but he more than halfway means it. _You’re fucking with me._

 _You make it easy. I could fuck you all night long._ And just like that the kid recoils, face red as a match head _. I mean, I meant to say…_ _fuck_ WITH _you, not— not—_

Fee’s eyes narrow to Clint Eastwood slits. _Don’t be so quick to rule it out. You might like it._

No answer, except this: the kid sidles forward until they’re almost nose-to-nose. He slowly drapes his long body against the pole, so close to Fee their chests are nearly grazing, and gives him a soft, searching look.

Fee likes it, sure. But he doesn’t trust it. He can’t believe it might possibly be meant for a buffoon like himself. Tired, dizzy, hungry, frustrated, he knocks his head gently against the pole. The unexpected touch of Kee’s hand on his elbow zings like electricity, burns like a branding iron.

 _You okay?_ Kee says.

Fee shakes him off, not unkindly. _I’m HUNGRY, kid. I was hungry when I met you, and now I’m at the point of eat-now-or-fall-down. Like I said, I’ll bring you to see the Boss, but I gotta find some grub first. You in?_

_Well, there’s a corndog stand around the—_

_No—fuck no!_ Fee is properly horrified. _That shit’s for ticketholders. If you’re serious about joining the G &A crew, you’re gonna have to eat what _we _eat._ He straightens up, yanks down the hem of his jacket, and thumps the dome of his hat more snugly onto his head. _I’m gonna ask you one last time. Where’d you learn to dance like you do?_

 _None of your goddamn business,_ Kee retorts. _Where did YOU learn to dance like YOU do?_

_None of YOUR goddamn business._

_I like you,_ Kee says under his breath, not at all by accident this time. 

The two men stare at each other. Then each in turn breaks into a grin.

 _I like you, too. Holy fuck, do I ever,_ Fee rasps, shaking his head. _But chow first, okay? Everything else can follow._

Bombs Away is fifty-two years old and has been a cook for at least two thirds of that time. He keeps sixty-eight circus employees fueled using any motley combination of ingredients that come his way. Every circus needs a magician, and he performs his act best on the thinnest dime.

Today’s special, according to the dry-erase board, is called the No-Bullshit Burrito. Whole-wheat tortilla, homemade refritos, spinach, tomatoes, poblanos, and chipotle _crema_. Roll ‘em up tight, swaddle ‘em in foil, hand ‘em out one by one to the acrobats, aerialists, bally broads, riders, face-painters, carneys, and sundry other members of the tribe. Townsfolk are never, _not ever,_ allowed a taste. The only reason Kee gets a burrito is because he’s with Fee.

 _Fuck,_ he keeps mumbling around enormous mouthfuls. _Fuck._

Fee (whose table manners are pure pedigreed Groton) smiles indulgently. It’s occurred to him that the kid may not have had a decent meal for some time. And anyway, this is a _circus_. Who gives a hoot about etiquette?

After they’ve completely demolished their burritos, the two men begin to swap résumés. It’s a delicate process, as neither wants to reveal his full hand.

Of himself, Kee’s willing to say that he’s twenty-three and has been on his own for a long time. _Were you an emancipated minor?_ Fee wonders aloud, and for a moment, Kee’s eyes go cagey and opaque. _I guess you could call it that,_ he mutters.

Fee shifts around, seeking a position that will accommodate his post-snake-roll ache. _I didn’t get free until I was twenty-nine,_ he confesses. Free from what? He doesn’t say.

Boiled down, the ship Fee jumped is one few people would be permitted to board in the first place. Handed every advantage – sterling name, private schools, fat trust fund, a Peugeot for graduation – he torpedoed it all with a showman’s flourish three months after leaving Harvard.

 _I went on a long trip and just never came back,_ he confesses _. Sent my folks a letter so that they wouldn’t think I’d been kidnapped._

He’s dodging the truth here. The letter went not to his parents but to their solicitors, Owen, Glann & Beaufort, who handle all correspondence. Every six months or so Fee bums a stamp off Big Man and slaps it on a postcard to Beaufort, the one he always liked best. He doesn’t want money or pardon or a return ticket home. He just wants one person from his old life to know he’s still kicking.

 _Then what happened?_ Kee’s asking. _What did your folks do?_

 _Nothing._ Fee smiles, shrugs. _They were as tired as me as I was of them. Whatever. It was six years ago._

In the distance, a _ding!_ followed by a lusty cheer; someone’s won at the strongman game. 

Kee scrapes up a small handful of gravel and lets it trickle through his fingers. _My dad’s in prison,_ he says flatly. _Been eleven years since I last saw him. Five years since I saw my mom. She went back home._

_Where’s home?_

The last thing Fee expects to hear is the word _Andalucía._

She was a _bailaora_ , come all the way from Jerez to perform in the Chicago Flamenco Festival. A tall young man with sparkling blue eyes sat in the audience. After the show, he kissed her hand; four breathless days later, he put a ring on it. Her parents called him _el chorizo,_ ‘the thief’ in Caló parlance. In her joy, she thought they meant he’d stolen their daughter’s heart. It took twelve torturous years and two stints as an inmate’s spouse for her to understand they’d meant it literally.

 _I got my eyes from her, and she taught me how to dance. And then the minute I turned eighteen, she told me I was on my own. She wasn’t anyone’s wife anymore; why should she be anyone’s mother?_ Kee’s voice is quiet but bitter enough that Fee himself can taste it. _Last thing she told me before she got in the taxi was ‘Don’t let the landlord see you leave in the middle of the night.’ And I figured, if that’s how it is, then_ _fuck having a landlord. Fuck putting down roots in the first place. Better to keep on the move._

 _I know that tune,_ Fee assures him. _It’s practically my anthem._

As he speaks, he reaches to thumb away a fleck of cream cheese from the corner of Kee’s mouth and transfers it without thinking to his own. It’s only Kee’s look, startled and full of yearning, that alerts him to what he’s done. He pinkens, then grins; after two beats, Kee does the same.

_What have we here? A private tea party?_

Startled, both men squint upward.

Galadriel has a towering presence even when you’re eye to eye with her. From ground level, and with the sun behind her, she resembles a pillar of cloud. But her barracuda smile smacks of something less angelic, and Kee instinctively rears back like a rattlesnake.

 _Kee, this is Galadriel,_ Fee mutters. _An old and dear friend._ Subtle emphasis on _old_.

Galadriel’s smile is buttercream icing laced with cyanide. Ignoring Fee, she flips her sunglasses up to the top of her fair head to get a better look at Kee. _Weeellll!_ _You must be the dancer everyone’s buzzing about!_ she sings. _The talk of the midway—!_

Fee cuts her short. _What can I do you for, darlin?_ What he means is, _Don’t you even start._

But Galadriel’s already off and running. _Well, now that you mention it, I_ could _use a little help around the house,_ she croons in her best Katharine Hepburn impersonation. _Not right this very_ instant _, of course. I’m on my way to talk business with Big Man, and you know how delicate THAT can be. But later…_ She has the audacity to wink directly at Kee. _When you two lovelies have finished your picnic_.

Kee’s indignation throws off actual, tangible heat. To forestall a catastrophic eruption, Fee leaps into the breach. _How ‘bout I come by later, after I get my friend here to the employment office. He’s looking for a spot aboard the Ark. Might even be family soon._

Despite her glee at putting Fee through his paces, Galadriel catches the pleading tone of his last statement. She instantly drops the malice along with the Hepburn. _You’ll do just fine, kid,_ she tells Kee with sudden kindness. _You’re in good hands. Believe me, I speak from experience._

After she departs in a silken flutter, Kee hisses, _What the fuck was all THAT?_

 _Blood under the bridge. C’mon,_ Fee sighs, hauling himself to his feet. _Let’s get you to the Boss._

Showfolk carry interchangeable aliases, flashing them like badges depending on who they’re talking to. Case in point: the man that Fee and Kee are on their way to see.

His Ma and Pa back in Luck, Wisconsin baptized him _Bjørn-Arne—_ after his late Farfar, you understand.Among close friends, he’s _Bear_ — quite apropos for a big hairy brute who’s secretly as sweet as you please. Out of respect, the G&A crew call him _the Boss._ It’s his hands, after all, that work every pulley, gear, and lever that makes this outfit tick. And when townie boys swarm the big top looking for day labor, he winnows the chaff from the grain by means of the time-honored fool’s errand. 

Here’s the formula: send the newbie clear across camp in search of so-and-so. Instruct them to ask for a _six-inch Tulsa wind compressor—_ and hope they’ve never seen an eyelash curler before. Nine times out of ten, they figure out they’ve been had and slink away on their own, never to show their faces again. If they’re dumb enough to actually return, gently inform them that in the time it took them to fetch the eyelash curler, all the side work’s dried up. Sorry, pardner.

Sometimes, though, the fool’s errand brings home real gold. Put to the test some seasons back, Fee obediently loped away. A half-hour later, Ori dragged the Boss down to the calliope, where Fee was merrily juggling hubcaps in front of a burgeoning crowd. The Boss got Dwayne, and Dwayne got Bill, and Bill got Big Man, who hired Fee within the hour.

Then you’ve got Biff the mechanic. _Wind compressor? Do you mean a_ winch _compressor? Shit, I got one of those right in my truck,_ he told the Boss. _It ain’t Tulsa-made and it sure ain’t six inches, but you’re welcome to borrow it for the day._

He’s been with G&A for eleven years now. 

Kee jumps the Boss’ hurdle straight away. _You sure you don’t mean the hydraulic tape measure?_ he jeers. _Or the left-handed ice stretcher?_

_I guess we ain’t your first circus._

_Nope. I can hammer nails and lift and carry. I saw you have horses; I can pitch hay and muck out trailers—_

_He can dance, too_ , interjects Fee. _Hot as a blowtorch in that department._ Next to him, Kee quivers slightly.

 _Well, we got enough of a dancer in you, Fee,_ replies the Boss. To Kee: _C’mon, kid, I’ll get you set up._

As they head off into the backlot, Kee whips around and walks backward for a few steps. _Will you, um… Are you going to be…?_

Warmth blossoms in Fee’s chest. _Don’t you worry. We’ll find each other again, after the show._

Kee’s eyes glow as if a reservoir of magma lay just behind them. He licks his lips, flashes a grin, darts away after the Boss.

 _See ya,_ Fee calls out, tossing in at the last possible instant, _Make your daddy proud._

If you hit Fee with the question of why he’s back at his truck changing the sheets on the mattress, he’d tell you it’s high time they got traded out for clean. They’ve been slept on, sweated into and god knows what else.

That last part is literal. Fee has no idea what’s taken place here.

Want to know the rock-bottom truth? He hasn’t had an orgasm in years. No— that’s misleading; let’s rephrase. Fee hasn’t had an orgasm _that he remembers having_ in years. He’s _had_ them, all right; the sworn affidavits of a hundred witnesses would set a courtroom on fire. But put _him_ on the stand, and he’d draw a total blank. It must be why all his lovers hold him in contempt.

But tonight, Fee hopes to get lucky. No, not in his usual sad one-time-only way, followed by breakfast stares, lunchtime recriminations, suppertime silent treatments. Fee wants it to be different, with Kee. Good or bad, he wants to _experience_ it. _Remember_ it. He does not want to miss or lose a second of it.

He tugs the old sheets off, pillowcases and all, and rolls them up into a tight ball. The mattress underneath is shabby and stained, but it doesn’t reek of anything unseemly. The fresh sheets smell like powdered laundry soap, bright and crisp and aspirational. That and some tidying goes a long way to resuscitating Fee’s flattened sense of hope. If he were a bower bird, he’d spread bits of bright-colored treasure on the ground to convince Kee there’s some worth to be found in this nest. 

The neck of an empty bourbon bottle peeks out from under the mattress as if to insist he remain humble. _J’accuse,_ it whispers.

 _Yeah, yeah, yeah,_ he shoots back, snatching it up and thrusting it inside the nearest unlatched suitcase.

_Can you ever forgive me?_

As promised, Fee’s gone down to lend Galadriel a hand with her booth. To his surprise, she no longer needs it, Dwayne and Barry having come to her rescue. To his even greater surprise, what she wants is his pardon.

 _I was absolutely_ awful _, you poor things,_ she confesses. _My inner bitch got the better of me._

_INNER bitch, you say?_

_Oh, don’t let’s start. I’m trying so hard to be nice._

Galadriel’s booth is a show-stopper— midnight blue canvas appliqued with mystical silver symbols. Inside, glittering gauze entwines with LED fairy lights set to “gentle shimmer”. Her altar’s nothing more than your average folding card table, but swathed in purple velvet and scattered with crystals, it’s a sight to see.

_You want your usual?_

By “usual”, Galadriel doesn’t mean a drink. She’s about to lay the cards for Fee. She offered him a look in her Mirror – an antique silver punch bowl filled with water for scrying – but staring down into a vessel of liquid is something he’s done for too much of his life. 

True to archetype, Fee prefers Le Mat – the Fool – to represent him in all matters of prognostication. Galadriel has already thoughtfully extracted it from the deck. She hands it to him now, and he gives it a juicy smack of a kiss. _Hey, brother._

 _Ugh. Please no._ Galadriel plucks it from his hand and tosses it face-up on the velvet. _You’ll give it the clap._

It’s true that Galadriel’s got a gift for reading the cards. She’s known for her sympathetic but sound advice. But despite her Capricious Faerie Queene act, she’s a pragmatic woman at heart. She cuts and shuffles her dog-eared tarot deck like a Vegas blackjack dealer and saves the ceremonial horseshit for the customers.

When all cards are on the table, she peers up at Fee. _You ready?_

Fee (who counts serendipity and kismet among his closest friends) closes his eyes in assent.

 _Well, then grab a paddle,_ Galadriel quips. _Levee’s about to break_. 

The first card, laid over the significator, represents the querent’s immediate situation, the matter at hand. Galadriel flips it over via the long edge, dutifully intoning, _This is what covers you_. 

It’s the King of Wands upon his rightful throne, in his hand a staff of living greenwood. Fee doesn’t know whether it’s the King’s dark hair or austere expression, but he immediately thinks of Kee – moreover, of Kee _covering him_ – and bites his lip.

So blatant a display of longing doesn’t escape Galadriel. She gropes for her battered copy of A.E. Waite, flips to the pertinent page and declaims: _‘The physical and emotional nature to which this card is attributed is dark, ardent, lithe, animated, impassioned—’_ She tilts her head. _And I’d say at least ten years younger than you._

 _Oh, for Chrissake,_ groans Fee.

Galadriel claps the book shut with a smirk. _As long as we agree you’re not fooling anyone. Remember, I see all._ She leans forward to flip over the next card. _Now for what crosses you._

The good thing AND the bad thing about reading the cards for Fee is that he understands them just as well as Galadriel does. During their courtship, he took the time to familiarize himself with more than just her inner thighs. So when she turns over the Five of Cups – the drinker’s card, as unerringly tied to Fee’s Fool card as a mule is to its wagon – there’s not much she has to explain. The condition it symbolizes fueled some of their best knock-down-drag-outs back in the day.

Fee’s darting eyes confess to his recall of such scenes. He looks around at the twinkling lights, the cut-crystal pendulums, anywhere but at his ex. Galadriel knows that nothing shuts him down like being weighed and found wanting, but even she – astute as she is, or pretends to be – can’t help but press him just a teensy-weensy bit.

 _Again?_ she whispers.

But ‘again’ is a word for people who have stopped. Fee never has, so he corrects her: _Still._

 _Oh, Fee. Not a good way to start._ She means with Kee.

With good-natured futility: _Tell me something I don’t know, darlin._

On to the next card—the so-called crown, indicating subliminal influences at work. Galadriel turns it over and immediately wipes her face clean of emotion. Sympathy is, after all, a form of judgment— and isn’t the Eight of Swords punishment enough? Paralysis without insight, captivity minus the soul-reckoning that leads to liberation. Pain experienced alone.

(If a Fee falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If everyone’s around to see and hear it but it makes no sound, does it still count as falling?)

The next two cards represent influences past, both distant and recent. Galadriel flips them over one right after the other with no pause in-between. L’Étoile, the Star, reversed. Seven of Pentacles, reversed. Hubris, arrogance, overreach, self-hatred, self-punishment, loss of hope, complete abandonment of goals. 

In short, an honest-to-god circus fire.

 _Fuck these cards,_ Fee groans. 

_They’ve got your number,_ agrees Galadriel. But she’s already reaching for the next card, and what she sees genuinely pleases her. _Oooh, now, look at that,_ she coos.

The Four of Wands depicts a castle gleaming in the sun, surrounded by a jubilant crowd. Standing side by side, two grateful celebrants offer lush wildflower bouquets to the blue sky. The foreground is taken up by a structure of four staves garlanded with fruit and flowers, proof of plenty.

 _Stability,_ Galadriel whispers. _Shelter. Harvest. Rest. That’s what before you._

Fee shakes his head. _I’ve done nothing to deserve it._

_Ah, come on. Not everything has to be deserved. Sometimes you get a windfall, like winning the lottery or inheriting a fortune—_

_You have to buy a lottery ticket in order to play, and even then, your odds of winning are twelve million to one. And to inherit, someone’s got to die, don’t they? Someone you love. Nothing comes without a price._

_Jesus, Fee, if you could just… Look_. On a sudden whim, Galadriel whips the Fool out from beneath its covering cards and brandishes it before her friend’s eyes. _Look. This is you. It’s always been you. You choose it as your significator every goddamn time. Does this guy look scared or closed-off to you? Do you think he says ‘no’ to the unknown?_

Silence _._

As Galadriel goes to replace the Fool card, she drums her pearly fingernails on the King of Wands. _I doubt he’d say ‘no’ to this, either,_ she smirks. _I think I’ll just_ sliiiiide _him back underneath his boyfriend, where he_ clearly _wants to be…_

_Stop._

_You know, those flower poles on the Four of Wands look awfully like a_ chuppah _…_

_Stop._

Galadriel wrinkles her nose at him. _How long have I been telling you, baby? I see all._

They’ve finished with the ‘cross’ portion of the layout; next comes the ‘stave’ with its four cards rising from bottom to top _. Before we make the jump, do you want to take a quick breather?_ asks Galadriel.

_Only halfway through a reading? I’m hardier than that._

(Is he, though? Is he?)

In the end he gives in, but makes it clear he’d vastly prefer to spend his break alone. _I need to think,_ he says.

Galadriel’s eyes widen. Avoidance being the tell-tale heart of alcoholism, it’s not often that her old friend deliberately courts his life predicaments without the aid of liquid courage.

It’s a mellow September night. Dusk has fallen; beyond the glare of the flood lights, the sky is the deep violet-blue of dreams. At last Fee lights up that smoke he’s carried around all day. The first inhale is always the best; it hits the bullseye every time. The rest is just fortification for battle.

The cards really have got his number tonight. And it’s not just to Galadriel they’re exposing him. He sees himself peeled like an orange, stripped of his thick rind. His soul’s nakedness shocks him. 

Why does Phileas Lonesome work for a traveling circus and not a university, a museum, a global thinktank? Why – when he could enjoy a classic eight in Lenox Hill purely on the family dime – does he sleep in the long-bed of a Chevy Silverado? Why does he keep his doctorate in the glove box and a bottle of Wild Turkey under his pillow? Why can he fuck and fuck and fuck, but barely remember and never, ever love?

He could write a book. But that would imply he wants his story hanging around longer than he does.

Cigarette’s smoked down to the nub. Time’s up, funboy.

The southernmost card in the final four is the self card. Both of the people bent over it say the exact same thing at the exact same moment, in identical tones of disbelief: _Huh._

 _You know,_ ventures Galadriel, _people sometimes translate Le Bateleur as the Magician or the Sorcerer, but in French, it means the Juggler. And Le Mat isn’t the Fool, he’s the Beggar._

Stroking the card with his index finger, Fee snorts. _I always just assumed Le Bateleur meant the Bachelor. So I’m all of the above._

 _Not for long, if your King of Wands takes root._ Galadriel’s eyebrows arch as she puzzles it through. _I think that Le Bateleur is Le Mat all grown up, after a fashion,_ she tells Fee. _He’s still filled with magic and wonder, but now he’s learned to control it. He’s got his shit together._

_Now that doesn’t sound like me at all._

_Could be you, if you made an effort._

Whereas Le Mat travels free with naught but a bindle on his shoulder, Le Bateleur has – in a manner of speaking – _unpacked,_ an indication that he means to stick around for a while. The tools of his art are spread out over the table; from his gesture, he could be either high priest or stage magician.

 _Or both,_ Galadriel insists. _He_ transmutes, _you see. That’s his gift. He uses sleight-of-hand to turn one substance into another. Curse into blessing. Fool’s gold into real gold. But the change is_ real _, you know? It doesn’t matter_ how _it’s done, only that it_ is _done._ She gives Fee’s wrist a soothing, sisterly rub. _Every magician is shit at first, but they practice and practice until the trick goes off without a hitch._

_It’s still a trick._

_So? Fake it ‘til you make it, sweetheart. Eventually the magic takes over, and even_ you _will be thrilled and amazed._

The next card signifies the querent’s ‘house’ – their environment and its subtle influence on their thinking.

 _I’ve been telling you forever to stop sleeping in your truck,_ Galadriel sidemouths.

The meaning of Le Chariot reversed is most commonly construed as inertia, defeat, a cessation of forward motion. But Galadriel points out that even when right side up, its meaning is deceptive. _Look at those sphinxes,_ she urges. _They’re supposed to be pulling the chariot, but what are they doing? Lying down on the job. That charioteer’s all dressed up with nowhere to go. He doesn’t even have the reins in his hand!_

As she interprets it, the card’s telling Fee to find another mode of progress—spiritual, not physical. _Your mindset has brought you this far, but it’s no longer efficient for the terrain,_ she smiles. _Trade it in for something that serves you better. You won’t necessarily have to relearn how to drive. You just need a new vehicle._

_What new vehicle, though? You want me to take up Zumba, become a Unitarian?_

_No, just… Think about how you want to move forward. Fast or slow? Smooth or bumpy? Four-wheel or rear-wheel drive?_ She looks at him meaningfully. _Solo, or with a friend riding shotgun? Someone who can take over the wheel when you need to catch some shut-eye?_

 _I’ll give it some thought,_ he mumbles.

_Good. And stop sleeping in your truck. It’s bad for aging joints._

_I SAID I’ll give it some thought._

Now comes the penultimate card, indicator of secret hopes and fears. It’s the Nine of Cups, with its jolly merchant perched on a stool beneath a display of golden goblets. Neither reader nor querent really need to dissect its symbolism, do they? And yet Fee feels a curious desire to deliver a sort of eulogy over this card. Either that, or a commencement address for one nearly ready to graduate.

He points at the left-most goblet and works his way over. 

_Age seven. Peach schnapps from a bottle the cook kept in the pantry at our Greenport house. Age eight, Fourth of July. Wine dregs stolen from guests’ glasses while they were watching the fireworks. I threw up behind the boathouse and didn’t touch alcohol for five whole years. Go me, right?_

_Go you._ Galadriel’s echo distinctly lacks enthusiasm.

_Age thirteen. Sitting in the stands at Peddie watching my cousin Chloe tear up the lacrosse field, and her dad slipped me his flask. That same night, back at their house, I drank my first G &T. Kept drinking them all the way up to my junior year at Columbia. Then I came into my trust fund and discovered whiskey, all in one shot. _

It goes rapidly from this point. Fee picks off goblet after goblet. _Suntory, Tullamore, Dalwhinnie, Gentleman Jack. And since Tennessee is just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Kentucky..._ He’s dry-eyed as he stabs his finger down on the last golden goblet: _Wild Turkey, hundred and one proof. Every day for the last four years of my life._ He licks his lips, forces the words out. _If I stop now, I’ll probably have DTs. You think?_

 _I don’t HAVE to go to Hot Springs._ Galadriel splices her fingers together and tucks them under her chin. _I’m perfectly serious. Arkenstein will let me tag along. And anyway, it’s MY vacation. If I want to spend it holding your hand…_

It’s not the first time she’s offered to help him. Thus far, he’s rejected every idea she’s laid on the table, always with eye-rolling disdain. Rehab? For losers. Hypnosis? For chumps. Twelve-step meetings? _If I wanted to sit in a circle holding the hands of strangers,_ he once told Galadriel, _I’d come to one of your seances._

 _If you keep it up, one day you will,_ she retorted. _Only not the way you think._

For her to offer yet again leaves him completely overwhelmed. She _is_ his friend, always _was_ his friend, has never stopped _being_ his friend, even when he was the biggest, deepest thorn in her side. As always, her generosity humbles him; as always, he’s certain he doesn’t deserve it and will fuck it all up given half a chance. He’s not sure he should say yes. And for the first time, he thinks he might not say no.

 _Darlin, I-I might, um…_ he stammers, then starts again: _How would we even…?_

 _Sssh._ She tosses her chin in the direction of the last unrevealed card. She always asks the querent to do the honors. They usually obey eagerly, hoping for a single neat answer to their original question. Fee knows, though, that the last card is a new question in itself.

 _Go on,_ Galadriel whispers. 

He reaches for it.

Like his comrades the Fool and the Magician, the Hanging Man is solitary but serene. His eyes are open and aware rather than blindfolded like those of the helpless figure on the Eight of Swords; he can see his way out of his situation. Only one of his ankles is bound, implying that he could escape if he wished—but he does not wish. He is exactly where he needs to be, for the moment. His suspension is a test, not a torture. Even his gallows is alive and lush with green foliage. It, and he, are busy growing.

Fee leans his cheek on the heel of his hand. In his eyes, there’s a light of purpose that has been all too scarce recently. He thinks… no, he _knows_ that he’s been lucky today. Getting summoned by Arkenstein. Running into Galadriel. _Literally_ running into Kee. Things that seemed like close calls now can be clearly seen for what they are: harbingers of hope. 

It might take some time to arrange, and even more time to accomplish, but for the first time in a long time, it’s possible that he—

Commotion outside. Loud voices, footsteps skidding to a halt, gravel spraying. The door flap is torn aside as if by a cyclone wind, and then Ori the booth man is framed in the opening.

 _Fee,_ he pants. _It’s your friend._

Kee’s lying on the ground near the half-dismantled tilt-a-whirl, kicking puffs of dust up with his heels while Barry cinches a leather belt around his right bicep. His eyes roll under lids squeezed shut in agony. _Nnnnnnghh,_ he groans through tight-clenched teeth. _Nnnnnnghhh…_

It’s probably no more than a trickle, but Fee’s stomach performs a sickening barrel-roll at what his eyes interpret as gouts of blood. He casts himself down at Kee’s side, swiftly hooking his T-shirt off to fold into a makeshift compress. _What the fuck happened?_ he hisses at Barry, whose tourniquet-tying skills are hampered by trembling hands.

 _We were fixing Car Number Eight,_ Barry gasps. _The four of us lifted it together, but Biff slipped on a fucking piece of wet plastic wrap—_

Biff’s actually crying. _I tried to pull up, oh, god…_

 _You can see where it caught him,_ Barry continues. _Missus is on his way._

The source of the blood is a three-inch-long gouge in the flesh of Kee’s forearm high up near the elbow. It’s not as deep or ragged as Fee feared, but it needs immediate care. Pressing the thick wadded square of T-shirt to the wound, he leans close to Kee’s ear. _I gotcha, kid. The ride car, did it fall right on you, pin your arm down?_

_N-n-no, I— no, it just h-hit me—_

_That’s good. I mean,_ not _good, but it’d be worse if it pinned you. Barry! Take off that tourniquet, it’s way too tight—!_

_Nnnnnn…_

_Coming through, coming through!_ It’s Bill, wearing a neon orange emergency vest and lugging his first-responder knapsack. _If everyone would clear a space for me to work, please. That’s it— thank you very much. Barry, would you see to Biff, he looks a bit rough. Fee, I’ll take it from here, thanks._

 _Nonono—_ Kee threads his unhurt arm under Fee’s to keep him from retreating. _Stay here._

 _Course I will, baby._ It’s out of Fee’s mouth before he’s even aware of it. They haven’t even kissed yet, but he’s so certain they will that the sweet word falls from his tongue with ease, a drop of healing honey. He scoots closer and slides his hand under Kee’s shoulders, gently lifting the younger man so he can rest his head on his lap.

It takes a beat or two, but Bill’s no slouch. He takes in the tableau – a tender _Pietà_ amidst carnival glitter – and computes it in a flash. _Right,_ he barks. _Fee can stay. Now! How are we doing— Tee, is it? No?_

First step of primary assessment: ask the patient their name. If they know it and can say it – or if they correct you when you deliberately bungle it – move right along. 

_All right, Kee, let’s have a look at you. Can you follow my little penlight with your eyes? Splendid. I’m going to clip this little thingy to your finger and then we’ll get that tourniquet off; I’m sure we don’t need it with Fee applying such excellent pressure. Wiggle your fingers for me? Good, good. Pulse is fine, oxygen’s fine… I’m going to look at your wound now, but you can turn your head away if you like; you’ve seen enough already. Why don’t you talk to Fee instead?_

_Does it look bad?_ Kee whispers.

 _It looks like it smarts for sure,_ Fee whispers back.

_Will you stay right here?_

_Told you I would, and I will._

_Ah!_ announces Bill. _“It’s only a flesh wound, lambchop”— ring a bell? No? Never saw_ The Producers? _Hm. Well, the good news is you’ll live to give it a try._ _Biff, stop crying and hand me that kit there—no, not_ that _one, the white one_. Back to Kee: _Had all your shots up to age eighteen?_

_I don’t know. Maybe._

_Well, they’ll most likely give you a tetanus booster at the hospital—_

Kee stiffens up like a scared cat. _I ain’t going to a hospital._

_Indeed you are. An ambulance is already en route. Don’t worry; our insurance will take care of it—_

_I don’t._ Want. _To go. To a HOSPITAL, Kee snarls through gritted teeth_.

Bill echoes his obstinate tone: _Too. Bloody. BAD. You’ve a medium-serious skin tear which requires emergency-room attention and maybe even stitches, so like it or not, you ARE going._ He finishes taping Kee’s arm, then speaks a mite more kindly. _Fee could follow in his truck, couldn’t you, Fee? You are fit to drive at present?_

Fee knows precisely what Bill means. It’s with pride that he replies, _I am._

Now that Kee can sit up on his own, the performers ogling the scene begin to drift away. But Tori lags behind. The sight of Fee’s arm slung around Kee has set the gears of her mind turning—whether for good or for ill, Fee can’t be sure. He throws her a defensive glare, and for once she doesn’t bat it right back. She simply wheels around and walks away.

 _That girl said things about you,_ Kee mumbles against Fee’s collarbone, where he has elected to rest his head.

 _Oh, yeah?_ Fee half-laughs, half-coughs. _Well, whatever she told you, I suppose you can believe it. She’s seen enough of me in action._

_She said you drink too much, but that you’re a good egg._

Fee sighs heavily. _Well, she does know her eggs, I’ll give her that._

Here come the EMTs in their fluorescent-yellow windbreakers, hauling an ambulance stretcher. Once more, Fee leans in. _I’ll meet you there,_ he whispers, gently squeezing the younger man’s neck. His next act – deliberate but laden with risk – is to place the absolute smallest kiss on Kee’s earlobe, then pull back to gauge its effect.

In his lifetime, Fee has seen many a natural wonder. Butterfly swarms, meteor showers, desert superblooms, northern lights. If he exits off the highway to Cirrhosis City and cleans up his act, he might live to see a few more. But none will ever be so gratifying as _this_ face, _these_ eyes flaring with surprise and joy, _these_ lips telling him, _You better._

_What have you done THIS time?_

Fee’s dreaming about Harvard again.

All the social clubs have banned him, which he doesn’t mind a bit because they’re all entitled fucking assholes. But the clubs themselves have inexplicably been turned into a chain of roadside diners. One by one, they lock their doors when they see him coming. Everyone’s allowed inside to eat except him, and he’s hungry, so hungry…

_What have you done THIS time?_

His father stands in front of him, wearing a Brooks Brothers hacking jacket and a scornful expression. He’s witnessed every failure, every rejection, and has come to take his disgrace of a son home. As he rhythmically stabs at the face of his wristwatch with a fingertip, he snarls through perfectly white and straight and sharp-pointed teeth, _WHAT HAVE YOU DONE THIS TIME?—_

With a gasp, Fee jolts awake. He’s slumped in a hard plastic chair in the fluorescent-lit waiting room of a small county hospital. His father is nowhere to be seen, and Bill’s phone is vibrating in his hip pocket.

Fee owned a cellphone once. He accidentally on purpose backed over it with his truck on his way to joining the circus. Ever since, he’s made it a rule only to talk to people within eye or earshot. Once you pass out of range, that’s that. 

Bill begged to differ. _You will TAKE this phone and you will KEEP it close by,_ he directed. _If the words MON AMOUR appear on the screen, you will PICK up and talk to Thorin._ That’s Arkenstein’s real name, and of course MON AMOUR is what’s onscreen now.

For a ghastly instant, Fee’s certain it will turn out to be his father on the other end. But it really is Arkenstein, and though he’s a bit hoarse, there’s no bite to his bark.

 _You okay?_ he rasps. _Kid okay?_

 _Waiting to find out._ Fee rubs grit from one eye. _How was the show?_

 _Goosey was a bit stiff, but he hobbled through. Box office looks good. It’ll make up for tomorrow._

Ticket sales are always a bit thin on the last day; the yokels have already seen what they want to see, and they see no need to come back. At least early show means early strike, followed by an overnight haul to the next stop and an hour or two of shuteye before business as usual…

But Arkenstein’s not finished. _Marysville canceled,_ he says. He doesn’t sound all that broken up about it. _After tomorrow’s show, we take it down, load it up, and stay the night. Pull up stakes on Monday morning, and then we roll easy all the way to Falls City. Elroy’s agreed to move our reservations up a night._

Arkenstein’s been promising a motel stay for the last month. His friend Elroy owns a motor lodge just outside of town. They usually end up sleeping ten to a room, but there’s a fallow field out back for Smaug, and the water pressure in the showers is fan-fucking-tastic…

 _I think we could stand to catch up on sleep,_ Arkenstein’s saying. _We’re all about four quarts low, but_ you _—you’re riding on fumes. Which is why I’m putting my foot down._ He switches to his gruff-but-kindly-oldtimer act. _You’re going to take the day off tomorrow. No chores; no working the crowd. Just sleep and eat, the both of you._

_The both…?_

_Well, I assume the kid’s bunking down with you._

So Arkenstein knows. That little _yenta_ Bill must have tipped him off. Fee could opt for nonchalance, but it’s no use; happy anticipation rises in him like prosecco bubbles. 

_Can I keep him, Dad? Can I?_ he mock-wheedles.

_You better ask him. From what I hear, you’ll likely get yourself a Yes._

_You’re not going to hold today against him? He can still have the job?_

_I don’t see why not. It ain’t his fault Biff stumbled. Hell, it ain’t even_ Biff’s _fault Biff stumbled. Bill will hold a safety training. You know he’ll love that._ The sound of a quick, crackling inhale, followed by a rumbly cough, evidence that Arkenstein’s smoking his post-show blunt. _The kid’s a damned hard worker_. _If he can keep you in line…_

 _Fat chance of that,_ Fee’s about to say, but a vision’s coming to him. Literally coming to him from down the hall, sitting in a wheelchair pushed by an orderly. Kee’s bandaged arm is in a sling; he looks sleepy and rumpled and extremely indignant. The volcano in him is on the verge of spilling over from simmer to boil. But for all that, Fee feels his heart swell like a groom watching his altar-bound beloved coming up the aisle.

 _I gotta motor,_ he tells his boss. _My boy’s back._

 _Go get ‘im, Romeo_. 

And the line goes dead.

The whitecoat on call is named Dr. Doerr. He is unimpressed with Kee’s Vesuvius routine and speaks instead to Fee. _Your friend here refused a topical for the sutures, but I insisted,_ he declares. _He’ll be in pain later on and that is a fact. I understand you’re itinerant?_

 _On tour,_ Fee corrects him rather haughtily _._

_Oh, yeah. The circus. My kids went Friday night. You moving on soon?_

_Yes._

Doerr takes a pad out of his pocket and scribbles a few lines on it. _Get this filled at the Walgreen’s on Route Seven. He should take them until they’re all gone._ He tears the script off and thrusts it at Fee. _Get saline, sterile gauze pads, tape, and antibiotic ointment. You need to keep the wound clean and covered. The inner sutures will dissolve on their own; the others will need to come out in seven to ten days. Find a clinic._

_We have our own EMT._

Doerr shakes his head. _Find a clinic. A professional put them in; a professional should take them out._ He casts a weary eye upon Kee, who sits glowering at the tile floor. _You see even a hint of infection, you head straight to the nearest ER and no buts. Stubborn people lose their arms._

Careful not to look at Kee, Fee bows his head. _I’ll make sure of it, Doc._

Trudging across the parking lot, Kee keeps up a steady under-the-breath commentary: … _fuckin’ asshole… not stupid… boss ME around…_

 _I trust you’re talking about Dr. Doerr,_ Fee remarks pleasantly.

Disdainful Kee clucks his tongue. ‘ _Course I am._

As casual as Fee can make it: _How about me? Can I boss you around?_

Kee maintains a mean pokerface, but there’s a hitch in his breath as he says, _Maybe you can_. 

He means, _I wish you would._

 _I want you to do what the doctor told you,_ Fee tells him quietly. _I want you to take the antibiotics and wear the sling and get the goddamn topical when the stitches come out. And I want you to let me look after you. If you need time to think it over…_

 _I don’t. I don’t need to think it over,_ says Kee. Here’s that deep-banked glow again, that tiny smile not given to all. _We passed an all-night Mickey Dee’s on the way here,_ he says. _I sure could go for a milkshake._

Lit up bright as noon only hours ago, the fairground is pitch-dark now. Out here, a person can see every solitary star in the Milky Way. With that very thought in mind, Barry and Dwayne have parked themselves in a pair of lawn chairs, heads tipped back and monoculars in hand. 

The rumble of a motor approaches. As the brothers watch, Fee’s Silverado inches into view, rolling to a stop on the first vacant patch of grass. Fee cuts the engine, and the truck shudders like an old dog.

Barry slaps Dwayne’s elbow. _Look at what we got here_.

Fee’s a sight by starlight. Rumpled and weary in his blood-smeared Bowie t-shirt, he hops out of the truck and lopes around to open the passenger-side door. _What’s the prognosis, gents?_ he calls out.

 _Mars and Saturn in Sagittarius,_ replies a rightly dazzled Dwayne. 

Once the truck door swings open, two long denim-clad legs unfold and dangle out. Fee unlaces and pulls off their owner’s work boots, then leans in to rummage in the glovebox. Pills rattle in a prescription vial, followed by the unmistakable sound of a beverage being sucked through a plastic straw. A hum – _Mmmmmm –_ and a soft chuckle follow.

The brothers trade knowing glances.

 _They looking at us?_ Kee whispers, suspicious. 

_No, no,_ Fee reassures him. _They’re stargazing._

Now that they’re back in camp and more than ready to hit the hay, Kee needs to shuck his blood-soiled clothes. Fee figures on rigging him up with his last remaining t-shirt and an old pair of thermals, but the younger man demurs.

 _I sleep bare,_ he mumbles, so low he has to say it twice.

Fee digests this important bit of news. _So do I, usually,_ he manages to say. _I don’t have to, though, if you don’t want me to._

 _But you will,_ replies Kee, parting his legs to draw Fee between them.

It’s been a long time since Fee has shared a kiss at anything less than 0.15% blood alcohol level. He’s stone-cold sober now, with the heightened mental clarity that goes with that territory. But even that doesn’t account for how powerfully this moment affects him. Kee’s mouth is soft and searching and sweet, lighting every nerve in him like a string of firecrackers. _Gone weak_ is itself too weak a phrase to describe the state of his knees; if he weren’t leaning hard into Kee, his ass would hit the dust for sure.

When they finally come up for air, he exhales one word: _Let’s._

_Yes,_ Kee agrees, and Dwayne elbows Barry, who elbows Dwayne back for all the world as if they were two eight-year-olds at a wedding. 

And _you_ thought they were looking at the sky.

_You okay? You hurting?_

_I’m fine._

_I can move this thing out of the—_

_I’m fine. Come here._

It’s not like Fee’s never had someone in his truck before. Over the last few years, a couple dozen heads have rested on his pillow, at least for one night. Galadriel was too smart for that. She insisted he come to her. Made it easier to kick him out.

Beyond Fee’s drinking, there’s another reason why people only sleep here once. This home, if you want to call it that, fits only him. It is Fee-shaped and Fee-sized. Small, compact, self-effacing. He’s given up bigger spaces for this one. He’s made this bed and he lies in it. 

Now Fee’s aware of all that it lacks. Room, comfort, real warmth. Love. He worries it’s not enough. _He’s_ not enough.

But Kee knows better.

It takes slow, careful, coordinated fumbling to liberate each other. Undressing’s a major hassle, and the blanket’s barely large enough to cover them both at the same time. But once they achieve it, the feeling of skin against skin is primal and blessed; it reaches deep inside them and disconnects all the fuses that power new lovers’ anxiety.

Lying here with Kee in his arms, Fee watches the past crumble like ash. His old lovers wouldn’t recognize him— hell, he doesn’t recognize himself. The man who fucked as if hellhounds were on his trail is not home right now. The one who is holds Kee without urgency or design. In the simplest terms, he wants to know this man. That’s the core of his desire, and seemingly that of his bedmate as well. 

It’s a full twenty minutes before they even kiss again, and when they finally begin to touch each other in earnest, it feels like the grateful end of a journey of years, not mere hours. They are careful with each other, but not too careful. It’s understood between them that they came to this by chance, and they will have to take some risks before they know the outcome.

And it’s good. Not perfect. But _good_ —really, really good.

> _I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds_  
>  _Didn’t get to sleep last night til the morning came around_  
>  _Set out running but I take my time_  
>  _A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine_  
>  _If I get home before daylight_  
>  _I just might get some sleep tonight_

Norris is tramping the length of the encampment, taking stock of the morning and singing as he goes. He favors tunes about outlaws and far-off train whistles, about remedies that blunt the ache of impermanence, and the remedies to the remedies, and so on and so forth...

> _Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night_  
>  _First one’s named sweet Anne Marie, she’s my heart’s delight_  
>  _Second one is prison, babe, the sheriff’s on my trail_  
>  _And if he catches up with me, I’ll spend my life in jail_

Dr. Phileas “Fee” Lonesome, Ph.D., Professor of Considerably Less Bullshit Than the Day Before, rises slow from honeyed depths. He, like Norris, often ponders the remedies to the remedies. But for once there’s no bottle to reach for, and no need for it anyhow. The source of his consolation slumbers by his side. 

Deep in his dream, Kee is lovely to behold. Fee would very much like to wake up to this sight every morning for the rest of time. He’d like to kiss the man beside him and see if he still smiles when his eyes open. But the morning’s young, and there’s all day to fritter away on new love…

_Hey, Shitbird!_

The call is punctuated by a brisk knock on the back window: _ratatatatat!_ It jolts Kee out of his insulating layer of sleep; he reflexively pulls his legs and arms – including the injured one – tight to his body and moans in irritation. Leaving the blanket behind, Fee scrambles to his knees and pushes up the back hatch, sputtering _What the fuck?!_

Tori stands fresh-faced, blinking the sun out of her eyes. She’s wearing raggedy cut-offs and cowboy boots and a tank top silk-screened with a fish riding a bicycle. Her chestnut hair is plaited in two girlish braids tucked behind her perfect ears. In each hand she holds aloft an egg-and-ketchup sandwich on a paper plate.

 _Ta dum!_ she chirps. _Breakfast in bed!_

Fee stares at her in mute bafflement.

 _He’s still in there, I assume._ Tori cranes her neck to peer around Fee. _I took liberties with the ketchup. If he doesn’t like it, he can scrape it off—_

 _HE got stitches last night and HE needs to sleep,_ Fee hisses.

 _Don’t take an_ attitude _, man,_ Tori chides, thrusting the food at him. _I just heard he was staying, and I figured I’d play welcome wagon._ She flips her braids back, executes a neat heel pivot and strides away, throwing the final cheerful words over her shoulder: _Happy honeymoon._

 _Whuss happening?_ comes Kee’s sleepy voice from behind.

 _A fucking miracle,_ growls Fee _._

_For Christ’s sake,_ snorts Barry. _Now there’s_ two _of ‘em._

In his usual fashion, Fee has just crawled bare-ass naked out of the rear of the truck. Only this time he reaches back and brings forth an equally bare and blushing Kee, handing him down from the tailgate like royalty. 

_Ain’t you a picture,_ smirks Dwayne, and they are exactly that— little golden Fee and lanky dark Kee, hip to hip in the morning sun. They continue to provide quite a spectacle as one helps the other with his morning ablutions. The reverence with which Fee smooths cool water over Kee’s skin; the bashful smiles they keep trading…

 _Put your eyes back in your head, wouldja,_ Barry advises his brother. _Before you accidentally drop ‘em._

Day off or no, there’s business to attend to. They’re off to retrieve Kee’s vehicle from the public parking lot and bring it into the employee corral.

Kee feels self-conscious about his sling. It’s so conspicuous. It attracts notice and (even worse!) sympathy, which burns like acid. At the same time, he’s flushed with pride to be seen wearing Fee’s t-shirt. All the people here recognize it. One glance and they’ll know who Kee belongs to…

 _Didn’t know you had your own ride, baby,_ Fee ribs his sidekick. _Thought you just fell from heaven._

Kee turns scarlet, but ooh, how firebright those dark eyes shine!

Fee’s sporting the suit pants he graduated Harvard in and a vastly oversized Green Bay Packers jersey borrowed from the Boss. It flutters and flaps like a child’s nightgown as he swaggers along. He’s never looked more clownish, and he’s never cared less— not now, with Kee’s hand in his.

The remarkable thing is the effect it has on the rest of the G&A crew. Smiles, nods; not a fuck-you look in sight.

Goosey’s trying out a new stretch in front of his camper. _Another fine day,_ he remarks as they pass by his camper. Eyeing up Kee, he adds, _Perhaps finer than yesterday. Yes, I do believe so._

Galadriel – resplendent in pink batik, pale hair wound around silver hair sticks – intercepts them at the halfway mark and takes them one at a time into her embrace. One thing’s true about Galadriel: she gives excellent hugs. _Strong_ hugs, the kind that loosen all your knots and hearten you for the day ahead. Even Kee finds himself gentled.

 _Hold on,_ she says, and ducks back under the canopy, emerging with her tarot deck. She shuffles and fans it and holds it out to Kee. _Pick one._

He obeys, extracting his card delicately, as if it were made of tissue.

 _Turn it over left to right,_ Galadriel instructs, coming to stand at his elbow so she can see it from his perspective. Fee moves closer, too, and when the deed is done, he feels a melting warmth in his solar plexus.

Two of Cups, right side up.

 _What’s it do?_ frowns Kee.

Galadriel gifts him one of her wise-woman looks. _Exactly what it says on the tin, honey._

Even from three hundred feet away, it makes Fee’s breath hitch in his throat. He can’t quite believe it. 

_For real?_ he gasps. _This is yours?_

_Yep. Home._

They’re out at the far end of the parking lot – the tail end of nowhere, the back of the back of beyond – looking at a Volkswagen bus. To be more specific, a 1966 Type 2 with the extra stripe of narrow windows along the skyline. Two-tone, cream up top, and the bottom half a stunning—

 _What do you call that, sunrise orange?_ Fee asks. _Cantaloupe?_

 _Coral,_ Kee says with pride. T _he original color was this weird brownish yellow, like tobacco spit. I couldn’t stand it, so I had it redone. The door thing happened after._

He walks Fee around to show what he means. The driver’s side door is avocado green, a trade-out for the original dented in an accident. 

_Someday I’ll get it painted to match,_ Kee is saying.

 _No, don’t._ Fee grins. _It adds a certain something. And anyway, would it be a genuine VW if it had all the same color doors?_

They complete their orbit around Kee’s home-on-wheels. He glances anxiously at Fee. _Do you like it?_

_I love it. But how did you… where...._

_My mom gave me money before she left. Handed me an envelope, didn’t tell me what to do with it. So I bought this._ The rest comes out of him in a burst. _I know how to fix it, too. I do all the maintenance myself; I have a book and all the tools. I get used parts ahead of time when I see a problem brewing, so you won’t have to worry that we’re gonna break down all the time. And there’s plenty of storage room. You don’t seem to have much, but even if you did…_

Fee’s never been proposed to before, and with good reason. But he still recognizes it when it’s happening. Wait, what _is_ happening? All his joints feel shaky and loose; he thinks he might like to sit down where he stands, like, _immediately_ —

 _Fee!_ Kee swiftly catches him and lowers him to the ground.

 _It’s all right. I should have expected it._ Fee lets out a rueful huff. Big droplets of sweat have sprung out on the back of his neck, and his head’s spinning in a manner that might interest an exorcist. He marshals the clarity to continue. _What Tori told you is true. My last drink was night before last. I plan to keep it that way, but…_ He grasps Kee’s good forearm. _I hate to heap this on you, but I might need some looking after myself, at least for a little while._

 _It’s all right. It’ll be easier here. Easier and better than in the back of your truck._ Kee leaps up, fumbling with the carabiner clipped to his belt loop. He isolates the right key, and then he’s sliding open the side door. 

_Come on,_ he says, helping shaky Fee to his feet. _You’ll see._

 _He’s right,_ Fee thinks, once his eyes clear and he can properly take it all in. The light and fresh air pouring through all those windows. The wide bed platform covered with a soft, sun-faded quilt, promising comfort at the end of each weary day. The sense of anticipation, of readiness, of this place knowing him somehow. Hope fulfilled. The Chariot, the Four of Wands, the Two of Cups.

Yes, it will be easier, and brighter, and happier here.

 _I do,_ Fee says.

It’s a shit circus. The ringmaster smells of Bengay and Chesterfields, and the dragon is constantly complaining of gout. But as shit circuses go, the G&A fulfills its squalid purpose honorably. It causes children to _Oooh!_ and their parents to _Aaaah…_ It makes no promises and breaks no hearts. Maybe the co-owner’s spoiled son thinks he can slap a coat of shellac over its good, rough surface, but the road will crack and flake and wear that needlessly shiny layer away, exposing the good bones underneath.


End file.
